


A Day Late

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Mycroft, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Hospitals, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mind Palace, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Surgery, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5782783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Mycroft had been a day late to Serbia?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this fic came from, but it is a response to the January prompt on the watsons-woes comm over on LJ. This is a WIP, though I haven't the faintest how far or how long it may go on. Updates may be a little infrequent, but I hope to have a chapter every week, schedule permitting. Tags, warnings, and slash factor may change over time, just fyi.
> 
> If anyone has a better idea/really good quote I could use for the title, please comment with your suggestion!

They’re arguing. The voices are too far away to make out words, but the harsh edges of their accents echo off the walls and slither into his brain past the haze of pain. Panic curls up under his ribs; he tries to move his hands, but only succeeds in softly jangling the chains.

Footsteps, two sets. Steel-toed boots, he thinks dully. They always wear those. The toe of one enters his blurred vision. The metal is dull, scratched, spattered with dry blood. Sherlock aches with the memory of that boot connecting with his flesh. A hand grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head up; he goes dizzy and breathes harshly out of his broken nose as he blinks up at the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Blood trickles over his lip and stains his tongue with the taste of copper.

“We have to dispose of him,” the one in front of him asserts. “There are too many whispers to ignore the threat.”

“When are we leaving?” the other asks. Callused fingers cruelly grip his jaw, turning his face this way and that. Inspecting. 

“Everything must be taken care of by tomorrow.”

“Such a shame,” the second murmurs, tipping his face up with a finger underneath the chin. “But we can still have some fun with you before then, can’t we?” A blurry face comes into his view; heavy facial hair, crooked teeth spread into a grin. He tries to pull his head away, but is held in place between his hands.

“Oh yes,” the man says. “I believe we will enjoy the last of our time with you.”

* * *

 

“Phone for you, Mister Holmes,” the flight attendant interrupts softly. Mycroft looks up from his review of Serbian dialects and takes the offered phone. He waits until she’s disappeared behind the curtain once more before speaking.

“Yes.”

“Something has come up, sir.”

Mycroft keeps his breathing calm and his grip on the phone light. “Explain.”

“Our CI has missed the last two check-ins with his handler. Intel suggests that the group is dissolving and going to ground.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. It is likely that they will be...cutting their losses, sir.”

“Meaning what?” Mycroft asks.

“The target may be be terminated before we can reach them.”

Mycroft looks out the small window to his left at the clouds that surround the plane. They’re less than an hour from touching down in Serbia. His cover has been established for weeks-- all he would have needed was a day within the group’s ranks to get to Sherlock and extract him.

“We will continue as planned,” Mycroft says at last. 

“Sir--”

“And while we do,” Mycroft continues, overriding the other man’s protest,”you will be finding out who blew the operation. Someone whispered the wrong word into the wrong person’s ear, and I want to know who.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft rings off and stares unseeing at lines of Serbian verb conjugation. 

_ Oh, Sherlock. _

* * *

 

They take turns hitting him. Suspended from the manacles around his wrists, Sherlock swings in the wake of each impact as pain and heat blossom through him. One of the men wears a ring; the shape of it imprints itself on Sherlock’s skin.

He groans, low and heavy. The men laugh.

“Are you getting tired?” Ring Wearer taunts.

Sherlock breathes and keeps his eyes averted. A sharp slap threatens to pull him from his thoughts, but Sherlock retreats into his mind stubbornly. Around him, familiar walls slip into existence; the air takes on the scent of rosin and chemicals; the concrete floor beneath his feet is replaced rug-covered wood. 

“‘There are too many whispers to ignore the threat’--that’s what he said. How did they find out about the raid?” he demands of the wall, covered in papers and coloured string. 

“Someone talked, obviously,” a voice drawls from behind him. 

“Well if it has, one of your agents is to blame, brother mine,” Sherlock retorts, “which means there’s not much point in sounding so self-righteous.”

The walls shiver.

“No, no!” Sherlock exclaims, closing his eyes tightly. 

“You don’t have the energy to sustain the illusion, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him.

“I do,” Sherlock argues.

“The mind palace is not--”

The room twists violently. Sherlock falls to the floor, watching the ceiling dissolve above him. 

“No, no, no, please,” Sherlock whispers to himself. Feeling returns to his limbs, pain burning its way through his veins with a vengeance. 

“He’s back,” a voice says triumphantly. “Let’s see how you like this.”

The pierce of flesh. Metal sliding past his skin, tearing apart muscle. Sherlock’s lungs become a vacuum as his eyes open with shock. He looks down, staring blankly at the knife sticking out his stomach. The back of his throat feels raw from words he can’t remember screaming. 

“Oh, I  _ liked _ that,” one man says. The knife is pulled out, setting Sherlock’s muscles to fire. Blood streams from the wound. Sherlock feels woozy, then overwhelmed with nerves as the man stabs him again, just to the right of the first. Bile creeps up Sherlock’s throat and makes him gag.

“Enough of that, now,” the second voice commands. “Ask him if he knows anything.”

The knife is removed carelessly and tossed to the floor. One of the men crouches in front of him.

“Tell us why you broke in,” he demands. Sherlock lifts his eyes a smiles, briefly, certain his teeth are stained with blood.

“No,” he murmurs back.

The man nods. The blow is not unexpected, but Sherlock still lurches to the side as the pipe slams into his back. The pipe is familiar; its blunt impact, the split of skin, the warm rivulets of blood down his back are a welcome fixed point in a changing game.

“You must know something!”

“You worked in the navy,” Sherlock whispers desperately. “Had an unhappy love affair.”

“What is he saying?” the man with the pipe asks.

“The electricity in the bathroom is broken,” Sherlock continues, “and your wife is sleeping with your next door neighbor-- coffin maker.”

“Shut up,” the man in front of him growls. “You lie.”

“What did he say?” the other repeats, more frustrated.

“Lies,” his partner spits, standing. “He is a foolish man, who thinks he can distract us with tales.”

“No,” Sherlock protests weakly, stumbling over his Serbian in his haste. “It is truth, if you go home now you will--”

“Shut. Up!” the man roars. His hand disappears from view, and before Sherlock can prepare himself the pipe collides with his temple. Splitting pain invades his skull and spots dance across his vision. As everything slips toward black, fear roils in Sherlock’s stomach.

“I know what to do with him next. He will not talk? Then we will break him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been more than a week, but here's the second chapter! I'm sorry for leaving you hanging-- real life has gotten a bit crazy lately between college paperwork and rehearsals for a show I'm in. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first chapter. You guys are amazing, and your kind words are very motivational!

There is a car waiting for him at the small airstrip. Mycroft spent the landing getting changed; as he clatters down the small fold-out staircase, he finds himself thankful for the thick layers of his new attire. The sky is grey above him, threatening rain, and his breath comes out in heavy puffs of steam. 

Mycroft walks to the car and waits for the driver leaning against it to open the door for him. He is young, mid-twenties at most-- a low ranking lieutenant. He does not say thank you as he settles himself into the back seat.

“What is the status of the shipment?” he asks after they’ve reached the main road. 

“It is….not good, sir,” the driver admits, risking a glance at him through the rearview mirror.

Mycroft allows one eyebrow to raise. “Explain,” he says shortly.

“We have heard some dangerous rumors, of an infiltrator. Management believes it is safer to move than risk exposure.”

“Need I remind the  _ management _ how long this deal has been in place?”

“Of course not, sir. I’m sure the management will be able to work something out,” the driver placates, refocusing on the road. 

Mycroft looks out the window, face impassive.

* * *

 

“You know what they’re doing,” Molly says quietly. “Now, I mean.”

“Yes.” Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around him and keeps his eyes on the body before him. Someone is knocking on the door of the morgue; they are ignored. “Tell me about the injuries.”

Molly’s gaze is a heavy weight on his back. “Numerous wounds on the back of differing lengths and depth,” she says at last. “My best bet is that a variety of weapons were used-- a few knives, possibly a whip. There is also multiple areas of very deep bruising. I think they used a lead pipe.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs. “How old are the injuries?”

Molly swallows. “It’s difficult to say, considering the layering, but…” she glances up at Sherlock. “The oldest? Somewhere around two weeks is my best guess. They started out slow, but after that it was a flurry of injuries. This,” she continues, pointing to the patch of split skin at the temple, “occurred about half a day before time of death.”

Sherlock breathes in tightly. “What else? What about the stab wounds?” he demands in a harsh whisper.

“Sherlock--”

“No, Molly. I need to know.”

“I can’t stand here and narrate your own death to you, Sherlock!” Molly yells. “You should be focusing on how to get out of that place, not…”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I can’t.”

The pounding on the door sharpens the silence between them.

“Please don’t make me do this,” Molly begs, clasping her clipboard hard against her chest.

Sherlock takes a step forward. It’s only when he finds himself blinking up at Molly that he registers the sensation of falling.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock waves her concern away. “I’m fine,” he assures her, reaching out a hand. Molly goes to grasp it, but her fingers slip through Sherlock’s own.

“No,” Sherlock growls, swallowing down panic. The door is rattling on its hinges. Sherlock reaches for the examination table, but can’t get a grip on the metal.

“No, no.”

Molly, quickly fading, has tears running down her cheeks. “Sherlock, you can’t go back, you  _ know _ what they’re doing--”

“I’m  _ trying _ ,” Sherlock grits out. Focus. The smell of cleaning supplies. Latex gloves. Cold tile beneath his hands. A hint of Molly’s perfume, cherries and vanilla. Dirt. Blood. Sweat.

“No,” Sherlock repeats. 

“Sherlock...I’m so sorry,” Molly whispers.

“No!” Sherlock screams, and opens his eyes. There is numbness, then everything crashes into existence. The light is blinding. There is dust in the back of his throat, dried tear tracks on his cheeks. The pain is excrutiating, a large tidal wave pounding his mind from all sides. His arm-- oh God, his arm. Sherlock manages a single glance at the mangled flesh and broken fingers of his left hand, the unnatural angle of his shoulder.  _ Oh God.  _ He turns away, retching, and tries to breathe. His nose is bleeding again.

“Have you changed your mind yet?” a man taunts. Sherlock feels the man’s fingers tangle in his hair, but the trill of a mobile interrupts. The fingers slip from his curls, and Sherlock blearily listens to two sets of footsteps walk away and the door slamming shut behind them.

Sherlock slumps forward and lets his chin brush his chest. “Please,” he begs. “Please.” 

The only answer is the sound of a rat scampering across the floor.

* * *

 

The restaurant is empty except for two large men at a table and five even larger bodyguards positioned strategically around the room. Mycroft pastes on a diplomatic smile as he slides into a chair opposite the management.

“Gentlemen,” he greets.

“Mr Fox,” one returns with a nod. “I am Ober and this is Jacob. Your trip was comfortable, I trust.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replies. “I look forward to doing business.”

The silent one -Jacob - smiles sharply.

“As do we,” Ober continues. “Now. This order you have placed--”

“Your driver suggested there may be a problem procuring it. I sincerely hope that is not the case.”

“No problem, Mr Fox. It may simply take some time. We must be cautious, of course. Could you tell us why you want this product?”

Mycroft bares his teeth. “As I stated in my order, my organization has several grievances lodged against the individual. We want to set things right, so to speak.” 

“Indeed. You can understand, however, why we may be reluctant to give it up.”

“I can assure you our punishment is more than adequate to cover any trouble you’ve received.”

“That is not what I was referring to, Mr Fox. We are patching a hole in our fabric, and we feel it may be prudent to hold off doing business until it’s fixed.”

“Unacceptable,” Mycroft objects. “We have been bargaining for nearly a month. I will not walk away without this package.”

“Yes, and that is the problem, Mr Fox,” Ober agrees. “One month ago, one of our facilities was infiltrated. Our men chased the individual down, and captured him within the week. Then, you arrive, asking questions about this same individual. A few days later, one of our most trusted clients is arrested, and in the past two weeks we have sprung more leaks than a sinking boat.”

“What is your point?” Mycroft asks testily. 

“My point,” Ober answers with a smile and a flick of his fingers. “Is that I think it would prudent to find out what  _ you _ know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome and appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading! I apologize for not getting back to your comments-- RL is a little crazy right now, thanks to the fact that I have a show next week and just auditioned for another yesterday. But please know that I do read them and I fangirl to my friends about your kind words, and that I plan to reply as soon as I can.

Blood spatters over the wood table; as it lands, the sound of shattering glass makes its impact on Mycroft’s ears. Ober slumps over, revealing a small bullet hole at the back of his skull. Five more shots crack through the air, dropping the guards to the floor.

“Well done, Grey,” Mycroft murmurs, reaching for a handkerchief. He wipes away the small droplets of blood on his fingers. Looking up, he smiles blandly at Jacob. 

“I wouldn’t try anything foolish. I have a rather impressive sniper sitting outside.”

Jacob’s jaw clenches, but he stays still. Mycroft allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction.

“Very good,” he praises, leaning over the table. “Now. Where is the package?”

* * *

 

“Christ,” Lestrade swears, shaking his head. “How did you get yourself into this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock approaches the cork board on Lestrade’s wall, fingers steepled under his chin. “What have you found out?” he asks, inspecting the maps and papers pinned to the board.

“Not a lot,” Lestrade admits. “They’re from Serbia originally, likely one of two northern regions. Related, probably-- we’re thinking cousins. One was in the navy, the other a carpenter.”

“Anything else?” 

“There’s the building. Situated a good distance away from any major towns nearby. Built just before the turn of the century. It was originally a warehouse for drugs, but the ring went out of business in the late 90s. Best we can tell, the Serbian organization started using it shortly after.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock demands, clenching his fists. “Two weeks, and this is all you’ve learned?”

“Well it’s a bit hard to gather evidence when your only source is compromised,” Lestrade snaps back. A long beat of silence follows, then a heavy sigh. Lestrade comes to stand next to him, close enough for their shoulders to brush.

“I’m sorry, lad,” he says quietly. 

“You’re right,” Sherlock shrugs, affecting nonchalance. “I should have noticed more.”

“Sherlock.” A hand on his arm, turning him slightly. Lestrade forces their eyes to meet before he speaks. “The amount you did notice is  _ astounding _ . We know where the building is, a general idea of your captors’ descriptions and backgrounds. That’s more than anyone could expect.”

“Right,” Sherlock mutters, starting toward the door.

“We’ll figure this out, Sherlock. We will.”

“You’re a homicide detective, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, smiling without humor. “By the time you figure it out, there’s not much to be done.”

“Sherlock--”  
“I’ve got to go,” Sherlock says quickly, and opens the door.

He keeps his eyes closed, this time, and weathers the assault of pain with even, shallow breaths. He’s still alone, still alive. Temporary reassurances. His knees ache from pressing into the hard floor. A small shift only succeeds in jostling his arm; the fire of pain that follows rips through his defenses and leaves him choking on screams. He heaves again, and feels warm blood trickle from the reopened stab wounds.

A tear slips down Sherlock’s cheek. “Oh, hell,” he whimpers softly. 

What he’d do for some morphine.

* * *

 

“I told myself I’d given up fieldwork, you know,” Mycroft says conversationally, slipping on his gloves. “Why get messy when you can make others work while you sit behind a desk? Still, there are certain...benefits to doing things yourself. Grey, hand me the pliers, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The weight of the pliers in his hand makes Mycroft smile. Slowly, he approaches the chair where Jacob sits.

“What’s the most painful thing you’ve ever felt, Jacob?”

Tracking the pliers with his eyes, Jacob says nothing.

“May I remind you what happened to your partner, Jacob? It would be in your best interests to answer my questions promptly. I’ll ask again: what’s the most painful thing you’ve ever felt?”

“Broke my arm,” Jacob spits out.

“When?”

“I was just a kid.”

“Fascinating. And most recently?”

“Being punched with iron knuckles. Man broke my nose and knocked a tooth out.”

Mycroft widens his eyes in mock interest. “Knocked a tooth out? My, my. That does sound painful. Don’t you agree, Grey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And breaking a bone...yes, that is quite the experience.” Mycroft takes a step forward and bends until his lips nearly brush Jacob’s ear. “Child’s play, however, compared to what I will do to you if you don’t tell me where the package is.”

“I won’t tell you,” Jacob snarls.

Mycroft tilts his head. “No, you won’t. And then I will pull out one of your teeth with these pliers,” he says, tapping the cool metal against Jacob’s cheekbone. “You’ll be able to taste the blood, might even choke on it a bit. And then I’ll pull another one, and another, until your teeth are stained red and there is blood dripping down your chin. After that, I’ll move on-- perhaps some cigarette burns on your chest. I’ve been trying to quit, but the damn things are so tempting. I always carry a pack. So I’ll burn you, until you’re screaming in agony and your will is starting to weaken. Can you imagine it?”

“You can’t break me,” Jacob says. Mycroft smiles at the note of false bravado.

“I can, Jacob, and I will. The burns won’t be the end of it, you know. I learned rather a lot during my time in the field. Nails through the feet, waterboarding. Stabbing, not so deep to kill but enough to make every thought tinged with pain.”  
Jacob swallows sharply. Mycroft can hear his breathing speed up with fear, and takes the final step.

“Life is not like the films, Jacob. People don’t survive torture without giving up whatever their captors want. Even then, there’s no guarantee that they’ll recover from whatever damage is done. You will go though massive amounts of pain, for nothing. So,” Mycroft concludes, lowering his voice. “This is your chance, to avoid that pain.”

Jacob remains stubbornly quiet. Mycroft waits another moment, then shrugs.

“Have it your way, then,” he says, and readjusts his grip on the pliers. Leaning over, he forces Jacob’s mouth open. He doesn’t consider the consequences of what he’s about to do, but simply picks out a tooth. A back molar, where the root will go deep into Jacob’s gums. With a steadying breath, he maneuvers the pliers into place and clamps down hard. He pulls, gently at first, then with more effort; the tooth begins to come loose. With a vicious yank, he pulls the tooth out and lets it drop to the floor; Jacob screams beneath him as blood wells up from the hole.

“Please,” he sobs, spitting blood. Mycroft stares down impassively. 

“It will only get worse, Jacob,” he replies blankly. Jacob stares up at him, eyes wide with fear. Mycroft waits a beat, then moves to put the pliers back into Jacob’s mouth.

“Okay, okay,” Jacob gurgles. “I’ll tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome and appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this took so long! RL has been crazy these past few weeks-- I had performances and got sick and then just when I thought I was finished, rehearsals for my next production started. I hope you enjoy!

The door flies open on its hinges and slams back against the wall. Sherlock jerks his head up, muscles going tense. As the dizzy sparks clear from his vision, Sherlock focuses his gaze on the hallway. No-one stands in the open doorway. His pulse pounding, Sherlock breathes raggedly through his mouth and waits.

A hooded figure appears around the corner, walking toward him. Male, under two metres tall. The light is bright behind him, throwing most details of his appearance into darkness, but Sherlock can pick out grey-blond hair and steady hands.

“Sherlock,” the man murmurs brokenly, kneeling beside him.

Slowly, Sherlock turns his head. His heart crawls up into his throat as he takes in more data-- worn denim, a familiar pair of boots. The scent of tea, gun oil, antiseptic. The observations connect like puzzle pieces, presenting a picture Sherlock can’t believe.

“Sherlock,” the man repeats, pulling back his hood. Sherlock chokes on his next breath as tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

“John.”

* * *

 

Mycroft injects Jacob with a heavy sedative; together, he and Grey bind him and lock him away in the restaurant’s wine cellar. 

“I need to make a call,” Mycroft says. Grey nods and leaves him, murmuring that he’ll bring the car around. Mycroft takes a deep breath and pulls out his mobile. He dials quickly and buries the impulse to tap his foot as the line rings. 

“Hello.”

“Adams.”

“Sir,” Adams says with surprise. “I haven’t made much progress yet--”

“Abandon post, Adams,” Mycroft interrupts, staring out the window. “We’ve been compromised. Our main priority is now pulling back and securing the package. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have a location for the package. I need you to bring all you can, now. Grey and I are on our way.”

“Coordinates?”

“Nothing exact,” Mycroft says with a grimace. “A warehouse, about eighty kilometres southwest from Belgrade, just before the border. Can you lock onto my mobile’s location?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’re in Uzice, right now, so you’ll need to move fast. Use the tracking device and meet us as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want more manpower?”

Mycroft can hear the sound of the car approaching. “No. Just firepower will do.”

“As you say. Locking onto your mobile now, sir.”

“We’re leaving now,” Mycroft says, and hangs up as he walks outside. Grey is idling in the lot; Mycroft opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. Grey speeds off. It’s only when they’re on an open road devoid of traffic that Grey speaks.

“How much of that was true?”

Mycroft looks over at Grey in the driver’s seat. “How much of what was true?”

“What you told Jacob. About your time in the field.”

Mycroft smiles. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Grey.”

“Right,” Grey says, shooting him a look. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion: we’re going to need backup.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. “I’ve pulled Adams from his posting and told him to meet us there.”

“What about the rest of the operation, sir?”

“The only operation I am interested in, Grey, is recovering Sherlock. Any other mission can hang. When Sherlock is back in London, there will be plenty of time to chase after human trafficking rings and find the leak.”

Grey takes his eyes from the road. “You won’t have any argument from me, sir. You know that.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.

“But I have to say this, sir,” Grey continues. “What happens if….we don’t find what you’re hoping for?”

“I’ve considered the possibility,” Mycroft admits. It makes his stomach turn. The Serbian branch was supposed to be a simple extraction of information, then a clean take-down. Moriarty’s web would be destroyed, and Sherlock could return to London. The capture was a slip-up enough-- the subsequent threat Mycroft has created to justify bringing Sherlock back even more of a problem. If such a simple word as ‘problem’ could adequately describe what could be the worst mistake of his career and the act of treason.

“And?”

Mycroft pushes down the mass of worries roiling in his stomach. “Drive faster.”

* * *

 

John’s hands run their way over his body, cataloguing injuries. Their warmth bleeds through the rags of Sherlock’s clothes; he shivers and closes his eyes. Tears drip down his cheeks.

“John. How did you--”

“Shh,” John comforts, gently winding his fingers into Sherlock’s overgrown curls. “Doesn’t matter, right now. You need hospital.”

Sherlock chuckles weakly. “How bad is it?”

The pause of hesitancy makes Sherlock open his eyes. John’s dark blue gaze is a mixture of anger and sympathy.

“It depends on how quickly we get you out of here,” John replies at length. “Infection could set in very soon. I’m surprised the stab wounds didn’t nick any major organs.”

“They are professionals.”

John grimaces. “Right. First things first, though: these chains.”

Sherlock looks at the manacles. “There’s a key, but they always carry it.”

“Looks like it’s going to be lockpicks, then,” John says, pulling a set out of his pocket. “Hold still, if you could.”

“Not much else to do,” Sherlock jokes feebly. Nevermind the fact that he’s unsure of whether he’ll be able to move from his knees when he’s finally free-- John will help him.

John sets to work, and the soft sounds of metal on metal accompany Sherlock’s breathing in the small room. Sherlock stares at the sliver of visible skin where John’s sleeves have ridden up to expose his wrist. John still smells of the same washing powder; the shirt he’s wearing is one he often wore when they lived at Baker Street. 

“Are you working with Mycroft?” Sherlock asks.

John fumbles with the lockpicks. “Why would you say that?” he counters.

“You have to be,” Sherlock says. 

“I’m not working with Mycroft,” John replies firmly, and sets back to work.

Something niggles at the back of Sherlock’s brain-- something...something  _ important _ . But before he can say anything more, the first manacle comes undone, slipping away from the wrist of Sherlock’s good arm. John makes a sound of triumph and moves over to work on the other restraint. 

The inconsistency jabs Sherlock once more, and before he can stop his mouth from forming the words they’ve slipped out. 

“Then how did you find me?”

“Why does it matter?” John argues. “I’m here now.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t be,” Sherlock says desperately. “You shouldn’t know I’m here, you shouldn’t know I’m alive.”

John sighs and kneels, cupping Sherlock’s cheek. “Please,” he says quietly. “Please stop this. Let me be here, let me help you.”

“How did you find me?” Sherlock repeats with a quivering voice, cursing his need to know, cursing this godforsaken room, cursing Serbia.

John shakes his head, jaw clenching and eyes slipping closed for a moment before he finds Sherlock’s gaze again.

“I didn’t,” he whispers, the words cracking. “I didn’t find you, Sherlock, and I’m so, so sorry.”

“For this?” Sherlock asks, leaning forward. “For the hope?”

“No,” John denies. “For what happens next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting and reading. Comments are always welcome and appreciated :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, new chapter! Starting this chapter was like pulling teeth, but the end of it came very naturally. Which is good, because I haven't posted for a while.

It’s cold, wet. His heartbeat thumps and rattles his brain with its force. He takes a breath, chokes on the intake of water. Cough. Thrash. A weight shoves him further down. He opens his eyes underwater, closes them.  _ The average human can hold their breath for thirty to forty seconds before needing to take a breath. _ His lungs are burning, screaming, and despite every fact he knows his mouth opens again, searching for air. Water rushes in once more; the dark behind his eyelids lights up with neon sparks.

Then, rough fingers in his hair. He’s pulled up, sharply, and his head breaks the surface of the water with a large splash. He breathes, nearly choking on the water that comes up as he tries to suck in oxygen. The hand forces his head back further, and a blurry face with a cracked grin comes into view. Snippets of memory filter in-- pain, screams, bent fingers. The sound of a metal bathtub being dragged over concrete. Fear, protest, screaming as his dislocated shoulder was hit with the pipe before they wrestled him under. Dark water. Hope.

_ I’m so, so sorry. _

“No,” Sherlock whimpers.  _ John _ . “Please.”

The face laughs. “He thinks we will be merciful.”

The second voice chimes in. “We won’t, though. Will we?”

The hand gripping Sherlock’s hair roughly shakes his head back and forth.

“No, no, no,” the first voice says, mockingly sad. “You see, you’ve become useless, and we are eager to move on. There will no be reprieve, this time. Not until you die.”

Sherlock tries to pull away, fear coiling up in his ribcage. The voices laugh, and then he is shoved under the water once more.

* * *

 

They finally find the warehouse; it’s ill-maintained and looks close to crumbling. There’s no sign of Adams. Grey hands Mycroft the semiautomatic and unholsters his other gun as they slip out of the car and quietly shut the doors behind them.

“I don’t like this,” Grey mutters, scanning the treeline. It’s misting, and clouds obscure most of the distance.

“Keep moving,” Mycroft instructs, walking.

“Sir--”

“We have no time to wait for Adams,” Mycroft interrupts harshly, glaring at Grey over his shoulder. “Either Adams is on his way, in which case he’ll find us when he sees the car, or the leak has got to him and he’s not coming.”

Grey clenches his jaw and readjusts his grip on his gun. “You don’t know what’s waiting for us in there.”

Mycroft think of Sherlock, bruised and battered. Sherlock, flayed open. Sherlock crumpled on the floor, cold and lifeless.

“I don’t care,” Mycroft answers at last, and keeps walking. A moment passes, and then he hears Grey’s footsteps pick up behind him. They follow the perimeter of the warehouse and after a minute come across a door. The metal is rusty and corroding; when Mycroft tries the knob, the old lock snaps with a brutal twist of his wrist.

“Ready?” Mycroft whispers.

“Go ahead,” Grey affirms, and Mycroft steps inside.

It’s no warmer inside than it was outside, and it smells of mildew, rats, and cigarette smoke. Mycroft’s breath turns to clouds as he carefully moves through the warehouse, Grey two steps behind. Piles of crates and pallets litter the space. As they approach the doorway in the back wall, Mycroft hears the skittering of rat claws across the concrete floor. 

The doorway merges into a narrow hallway. Mycroft continues cautiously, eyes open wide in the washed-out light provided by the flickering bulbs in the ceiling. Rooms line the walls of the hall-- one by one Mycroft throw open the doors and Grey stalks in, muttering “Clear” under his breath as every room turns up empty. 

They’re closing the door of the third room when the laughter reaches Mycroft’s ears. A quick glance at Grey confirms he’s heard it too-- Mycroft gestures towards the last door at the end of the hall and Grey nods quickly.  _ That one. _

Mycroft doesn’t remember running down the hall. Nor does he remember slamming the door open with his shoulder, though the sound of it hitting the wall inside with a resounding crack is firmly stuck in his mind. He takes in the room in a moment; grimy walls, suspicious dark stains, a drain in the middle of the floor. Chains hanging from the ceiling, steel cuffs around delicate wrists. Multiple broken fingers, a dislocated shoulder. A bathtub filled with water, dark hair floating on the surface. Two men-- one holding down Sherlock’s head, the other watching with glee. Mycroft raises his gun and shoots, the kickback shaking his hand. The watcher crumples without a sound, but the other lands half in the tub, half out; Sherlock’s head disappears further under the water.

“Grey!” Mycroft barks, rushing forward. He slips his arms around the dead Serbian’s waist and wrestles him out of the tub, letting him drop to the floor. Sherlock floats limply in the water. 

Grey searches the dead men’s pockets as Mycroft carefully lifts Sherlock above the surface, pulling long wet hair back from his face. 

“He’s not breathing,” Mycroft says, taking in the sharp break of Sherlock’s nose, the mottled bruises and bloodied lip, the blunt force trauma to his temple. 

“Found the key,” Grey says, and in less than a minute the cuffs are unlocked; Sherlock slumps forward without the support, and Mycroft struggles to get him laid out on the floor. 

“Fix him,” he commands Grey harshly. 

Grey moves in and begins compressions as Mycroft kneels next to baby brother, panic and nausea fighting for dominance in his stomach.

* * *

 

John has gotten him free. Slowly, he helps Sherlock to his feet and by leaning heavily against John’s side, the two of them make their way out of the room. At the end of the hallway, there’s a door. Sherlock reaches for it with trembling fingers and turns the knob, then lets the door swing open. 

Fleur de lis wallpaper. A brown leather couch, a red armchair. Books and papers, scattered over every available surface. Sherlock laughs as they step inside 221B, continues to laugh as John half-carries him over to the couch and gently lays him down. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a bone-deep sigh. A hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

“Tea?” John asks quietly.

“Please,” Sherlock murmurs, and listens carefully as John walks into the kitchen, fills the kettle and clicks it on, leans on the kitchen table as the water boils. Three minutes exactly to brew the tea, then milk for both of them and a teaspoon of sugar for Sherlock. John comes back and hands Sherlock his cup before settling on the sliver of cushion not taken up by Sherlock’s body.

The first taste of tea is coming home; every sip after replaces the warmth in Sherlock’s chest that had been frozen over by pain and isolation. John watches him steadily, barely drinking his own tea. There’s a distant thumping and yelling-- Sherlock wonders if Mrs Turner’s married ones are fighting again.

“You have to go back,” John says as Sherlock finishes his cup.

“No.”

“Sherlock--”

  
“No!” Sherlock shouts, then blinks, startled by his own vehemence. The thumping gets louder, pounding on their walls and against Sherlock’s skull. “I’m here. That’s it. I’m not going back.”

“Please, Sherlock,” John pleads.

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his head to face the back of the couch. The pain has disappeared-- everything is normal, fine, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, as it should be. It doesn’t matter, whatever’s happening to him, the thumping in his chest that’s stealing his breath. He won’t go back. He  _ won’t _ . 

John lays a hand on his shoulder and rubs circles gently over his shoulder blade.

“You know this isn’t real,” he murmurs.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock retorts.

“Yes you do,” John argues back, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He grabs John’s hand.

“Go back, Sherlock,” John says after a long moment of silence. “Please. Fight this, go back, and find me. The real me.”

Sherlock runs his thumb over John’s knuckles, then lets out a deep sigh. 

“Okay,” he agrees, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Okay,” he repeats to himself, and opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome and appreciated :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to take some time to work out a lot of plot details, which is why this chapter took so long. Hope you enjoy :)

The first breath Sherlock takes is a violent spasm. Grey turns him over to his side and gently pats Sherlock’s back, encouraging the water to come up and spill over the floor. Mycroft takes a breath of his own, closing his eyes briefly in relief. Sherlock retches; Mycroft kneels beside him and pulls the overgrown locks of Sherlock’s hair back from his face.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmurs, catching sight of the bruises and scrapes that run across Sherlock’s eyes and cheeks. His nose has been broken, and his lip appears to have been busted more than once; his left temple is bleeding, sluggishly.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker open. Recognition lights them when his gaze falls on Mycroft.

“My--” Sherlock cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Not real,” he mutters, twisting on the floor. “Not real, John, take me back, take me back, take me--”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts. He lays a light hand on Sherlock’s chest, taking care to avoid the open wounds. “Sherlock, I can assure you that I am here. Quite real.”

Sherlock stares at him, unfiltered fear and confusion in his eyes. “Mycroft?”

“I’m here,” Mycroft repeats. “Sherlock--”

“Shh,” Grey hisses, rising from his crouch. “Did you hear that?”

Mycroft looks up, senses on high alert. 

Grey moves to the door. “It was the exterior door opening,” he whispers, the sound of his voice barely more than air. “Someone’s coming.”

Mycroft picks up his gun and adjusts his grip.

Grey doesn’t look away from the hallway as he gives directions. “Stay where you are. If I go down you need to be able to protect Sherlock. Clear?”

“Clear,” Mycroft breathes.

The sound of the hallway door opening is magnified in their silence. Footsteps, getting closer, walk down the corridor. One male, approximately one hundred and sixty pounds, putting his feet down heel to toe. 

Grey flicks a glance back at him, silently asking.  _ Ready? _

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, whose eyes have closed again, then to Grey. He nods.  _ Ready _ .

Grey braces himself, and steps out from behind the door with his gun raised. There’s a tense moment of silence where Mycroft can hear the blood rushing in his ears, and then Grey laughs sharply.

“Adams,” Grey greets, stepping to the side and letting Adams come in. The gun he’s carrying looks too large for his skinny frame, but he holds it with confidence. “A bit late to the party this time, aren’t you?”

Mycroft lets out a heavy exhale as Adams speaks.

“I think you’ll want to hear why.”

Mycroft stands. “First, we need to get Sherlock out of here. Grey, if you could help me carry him.”

Grey holsters his gun and together, he and Mycroft carefully hoist Sherlock from the floor, supporting his broken body between them. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow, but otherwise he doesn’t show discomfort. Adams leads, and together they leave the warehouse and make it across the short distance to their cars. Sherlock is carefully deposited in the backseat of Mycroft’s; as they jostle him into position, Mycroft bites down anger and worry. He brushes a hand over Sherlock’s forehead.

“I will get you out of here,” he murmurs, and closes the door. Mask sliding into place, he turns to Adams. “What did you find?”

“Before you called me, I was looking for our undercover. Since he was working with the informant, best place to start when searching for a leak, yeah? I called him, on the secure phone we gave him. No answer.”

“Not surprising,” Grey says. “I’ve lost phones before. You work around it.”

Adams shakes his head. “That’s not what I found important. I tried pinging for the phone, on the off chance it was still working. And I did find it, but it was in Belgrade’s morgue. I stopped off on my way-- they had our operative. Mycroft,” Adams concludes urgently, “he’s been dead for almost two weeks.”

“Then who has the informant been talking to?” Grey demands.

“Someone within the organization,” Mycroft answers, realization dawning. 

“But we were still getting info,” Grey argues. “Well after our agent died.”

“Intel dropoffs were set up to be anonymous. All they needed to do to know where everything was happening was duplicate the agent’s phone or set up a filter on their texts and calls. Show up to the meeting place, give up any information that might take down a small part of the operations but wouldn’t affect profits, and you’re golden.” Adams shrugs. “The CI wouldn’t have known any better, assuming they even lived long enough to meet the stand-in. Just another agent to talk to.”

“So everything we’ve done over the last month has been worthless,” Grey concludes. “Every foiled plan, the Serbians knew it was going to happen.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies, trying to keep his voice steady and hide how shaken this news has made him. “And it’s unfortunate, but we have more important things to worry about right now. Adams, you and I need to get Sherlock out of the country. As soon as possible.”

“Shall I set up a bird?” Adams asks.

“No,” Mycroft says. “Subtlety and misdirection is paramount. We’ll go by car. Grey, I have a different job for you.”

“Sir.”

Mycroft fixes Grey with a steady gaze. “The management put a great deal of effort into making us believe that they had only just begun to suspect a leak. Clearly untrue. I want you to go to the friend we left behind and find out how they discovered our agent and why they kept it to themselves.”

Grey nods. “Any other requirements?”

“Don’t leave him breathing,” Mycroft says. Grey smiles, wolflike.

* * *

 

He smells leather, deodorant. The pain all over his body is steadily bubbling lava under his skin; sometimes, he is jostled, and everything flares in a bright and breathless moment. Murmured words reach his ears, but they’re too soft for him to understand. Most often, his consciousness is limited to hazy thoughts and the faraway feeling of something petting through his hair. The fear is gone, but so too are John, Lestrade, Molly. 

His mind feels empty in their absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, whether you've been following along or just started. Comments are always welcome and appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank god for spring break, which has allowed me to get so much more writing done. And also allowed me to read 130K of fic in a single day.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Mycroft says, and ends the call. He releases a sigh of relief, looking down at Sherlock.

“Good news?” Adams asks from the driver’s seat. 

“I’ve arranged for a doctor in Budapest. Discreet, and known to me personally. She’s promised to do all she can before we continue on.”

Adams nods. “Budapest it is, sir,” he says, and continues driving. 

Mycroft presses a hand to Sherlock’s forehead and frowns at the warmth there. Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in his sleep and he turns away, burying his head further into Mycroft’s lap. 

“The doctor said it would be best to relocate his shoulder and try to alleviate his pain. We need bandages, painkillers. Bottled water,” Mycroft relays.

“First shop I see, I’ll stop,” Adams agrees.

Mycroft brushes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, then looks out the window and watches the road go by. 

* * *

 

The restaurant is quiet as Grey pulls into the parking lot. Killing the engine, he gets out and shuts the car door slowly. The door is locked, as they left it, but a minute of coaxing the tumblers opens it without a problem. As he enters, Grey pulls his gun and sweeps the main room. Glass covers the floor from the shattered back windows, but none of the shards have been stepped on. The bodies of the guards are still behind the bar, and Grey is thankful for the cold weather-- the bodies haven’t started to smell.

So far, no evidence of intruders since he and Mycroft left. Grey continues, approaching the door to the wine cellar; an ear pressed to the wood fails to reveal if there is someone moving around inside. Mycroft’s sedative had an average life of five hours-- it’s been just under six since they injected the serum. Reluctantly holstering his gun, Grey kneels on the floor.

He picks the cellar’s lock and softly kicks the door. As it swings open, he redraws his weapon and moves forward. The cellar is dark; slowly, Grey creeps down the stairs, keeping his ears perked. Two steps from the bottom, something shifts from the far corner where they stashed Jacob. Grey skips the last steps, landing quietly on the dirt floor, and gropes the wall for the lightswitch they’d found the first time. He brushes it with his thumb, then flicks on the light. Grey blinks once to adjust to the flood of brightness, then scans the room. Jacob is where they’d left him, on his side, back to the staircase, in the dirt. Grey approaches cautiously; Jacob tries to twist his body and move away, but is stuck writhing like a worm. Grey smirks, and by the time he is able to stand over Jacob a full grin has split his face.

“Hello again,” he says. 

Jacob’s eyes go wide, and he lets out a panicked sound from behind his gag. 

Grey squats next to him and strokes Jacob’s cheek with the barrel of his gun. “Hush,” he admonishes, “and listen carefully. I am going to take off the gag, and the only thing I want to hear is the answers to two questions: How you found out about our operation, and why you kept it a secret?” Grey pauses and taps the gun against Jacob’s cheekbone. “If you do as I say, I’ll kill you quickly. If you don’t, I will do to you what you did to our package. Do you understand?”

Jacob nods frantically.

“Good boy,” Grey praises, and works the gag out of Jacob’s mouth, leaving it tied around his neck. Jacob sucks in a deep breath and stares.

“I’m waiting,” Grey murmurs. 

“Water,” Jacob pleads. His voice is cracked and dry.

Grey snorts. “No. Tell me what I want to know.”

“Water,” Jacob repeats.

With a sigh, Grey stands. A second goes by, and then in a flash Grey raises his gun and squeezes the trigger. Jacob screams, and Grey watches dispassionately as blood beings to well up from the new hole in Jacob’s thigh. It’s far enough from any arteries-- it’ll hurt, and bleed, but Jacob is in no danger of dying.

“You should learn to listen better, Jacob,” Grey reprimands. “Now. Tell me what I want to know.”

“We were approached,” Jacob gasps. “Interested party. Gave us evidence of undercover agent and informant. Paid to ensure you continued to receive intel and make busts.”

“Who was the interested party?” Grey demands.

Jacob shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Grey raises his gun again.

“I swear!” Jacob yells. “Ober never talked about it. Just know they were important, rich. Big fish.”

“How much did they pay you?”

“Ten million dinar,” Jacob groans. “Wire transfer, Swiss account.”

“The informant?”

“Dead.”

Grey nods. “Thank you very much, Jacob,” he says, and proceeds to put three bullets into Jacob’s chest.

* * *

  
  


Adams finds a secluded turnoff and pulls to a stop. Mycroft slides Sherlock’s head off his lap then opens the door and gets out.

Sherlock doesn’t scream as Mycroft relocates his shoulder. All that comes out is a quiet whimper as Sherlock curls into himself, away from the pain. 

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft murmurs. Gently he peels Sherlock’s arm from his side and cups the broken fingers in his palms. “Adams, we’re going to splint his fingers. I need three of the tongue depressors and gauze.”

“Sir.”

Mycroft moves carefully, straightening each finger and placing the tongue depressor underneath. Adams wraps the gauze around, tight enough to stay in place but loose enough to allow for circulation. After his initial resistance, Sherlock goes limp and allows them to work. 

“Do you think he knows where he is?” Adams asks quietly.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock’s half-lidded, empty gaze. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Clean the wound on his temple next-- prop him up so that I can bandage the stabwounds.”

Adams moves to the other side of the backseat and slowly sits Sherlock forward. His chest is pale and skinny, marred by the angry red slits left by the knife. The rubbing alcohol Mycroft wipes over the wounds makes Sherlock flinch, but otherwise he is still as Mycroft tapes on the clean bandages and Adams clears away the blood at his temple.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, cupping his brother’s cheek and lifting Sherlock’s eyes to meet his own. “You are safe. Do you understand?”

Sherlock stares back hollowly. Mycroft’s gut clenches at the sight; glassed over gazes are all too familiar to him when it comes to Sherlock and never has that emptiness been the bearer of good news. Mycroft can only hope Sherlock is in his mind palace, escaping the pain of his body, and not too far gone to be saved.

* * *

 

Grey calls as he watches Jacob cough up blood. Mycroft answers on the second ring.

“Yes.”

“Ober was approached by someone he only referred to as ‘an interested party’. Jacob never met them, and Ober only said that they were important and rich. The party gave them evidence of undercover agent and informant, then paid the organization ten million dinars via a Swiss wire transfer to make sure we continued to receive intel and make busts.”

There’s a moment of silence over the line. “And Jacob?” Mycroft asks at length.

“One bullet to the leg for persuasion, three to the chest after that. He’s almost gone now-- I’d guess two more minutes.”

“Stay with him, Grey,” Mycroft orders. “I don’t want any surprises.”

“Gladly,” Grey says, shooting Jacob a smirk.

“After, you’re free to leave. Lay low for a while. I’ll have your payment wired as soon as I’m able.”

“Don’t fret too much, sir. I’ve got a little nest egg I can live off for a while. Besides, this was more a repayment of favor than a job for me.”

“All the same,” Mycroft says firmly. “You will be paid. Thank you, Grey.”

Grey nods. “Of course, sir. You ever need anything, you know how to find me.”

They hang up without goodbyes. Grey stands and watches the life bleed out of Jacob’s eyes, then leaves. As he starts up the car and drives away, it begins to rain, and Grey sends a brief prayer up to anyone who’s listening that Sherlock Holmes makes it out Serbia alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments always welcome and appreciated :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! It took me ages to figure out how I wanted to write it. Hopefully it's worth the wait.

The sun is burning on the edge of the horizon as they reach Budapest’s outer neighborhoods. Mycroft took a turn at the wheel an hour ago; now, navigating streets full of pedestrians and cars, he rubs his scratchy eyes and checks the rearview mirror. Sherlock is asleep in the backseat. His thin frame is swallowed by the large jacket they carefully put on him as the painkillers began to work their magic a few hours before. Mycroft’s throat tightens and he pulls his eyes back to the road.

“Do you know how much further?” Adams asks when they’re stopped at a light.

“Yes. She’s arranged for an operating theatre and room in the hospital she works at. It’s independent, not part of the government health system. It should be private  enough to ensure Sherlock’s presence goes unnoticed, or at least unquestioned.”

The light turns. Mycroft drives. As they get closer to the hospital, the streets get wider and cleaner, less full of people. The building itself is a pristine eggshell white with dozens of windows overlooking the road. Mycroft drives around to the back, where Doctor Varga had said she would be.

“Is that her?” Adams asks, eyes flicking to the woman standing beside an open door.

Mycroft slows the car and nods. “Yes. Get Sherlock ready to move while I talk to her,” he orders as he parks and gets out.

Varga holds out a hand when Mycroft reaches her. “Mister Holmes.”

“Doctor Varga,” Mycroft returns, shaking her hand. “Thank you, for agreeing to do this.”

Varga smiles. “It is not so difficult a choice, to help a friend in need. I have prepared a theatre for your brother. Is he in the car?”

“Yes. Adams--”

“Holmes!”

Mycroft turns at the sound of Adams panicked yell. Varga rushes forward.

“Tell the men inside to get a gurney,” she orders over her shoulder. Mycroft blinks, then hurries into the hospital. Two men are in the hall, waiting.

“You are Varga’s men?” he asks in stumbling Hungarian.

The men nod.

“I need a gurney,” Mycroft relays. “In the back, now!”

They run off; Mycroft watches them turn the corner and reappear moments later with the portable bed between them. Mycroft presses himself against the wall to let them pass, then follows them out. Sherlock is crumpled on the ground, shaking, Varga kneeling beside him. She orders the men in rapid Hungarian and together they lift Sherlock onto the gurney and wheel him inside. Varga holds onto Sherlock’s arms as they move; when they pass Mycroft he can see a piece of cloth stuffed between Sherlock’s teeth.

“He needs surgery now,” Varga tells him as they move through the halls. “I have surgeon on standby, they are ready. I will find you as soon as I know anything.”

They disappear behind a set of swinging doors. Mycroft stops, heart racing. Adams lays a hand on his shoulder.

“What happened.” The question comes out flat, heavy with the fear that Mycroft can’t hold back.

“He started seizing,” Adams answers. “Probably because of the head wounds, combined with being in shock.” Adams waits a moment, then gently gives Mycroft a nudge. “C’mon. Sit.”

Mycroft collapses into a hard-backed chair and rests his head in his hands.

* * *

 

The constant motion stops. Sherlock tries to wrestle his eyes open, but fails. Something clicks, and a calm voice murmurs to him; spots of warmth grip underneath his arms and start to pull.

“You’re safe,” the voice assures. “We just need to get you inside.”

_ Safe. _ Sherlock relaxes and lets the voice maneuver his aching limbs. Everything is fine, he doesn’t need to worry…

The first convulsion that rips through his body makes every muscle come into sharp, blinding focus. During the second, the taste of blood crowds his mouth. He’s falling, arms flailing as he drops away from panicked yelling and into darkness. 

The landing forces his breath from his chest and rattles his bones. He coughs and opens his eyes to white walls and green light.  _ No. _

“Whoop-see!” Jim crows, grinning down at where Sherlock is splayed out on the floor. “You didn’t really think you’d gotten rid of us, did you?” 

Sherlock rolls away, weakly gripping the dirt floor. “No. No. Not you!”

“Come now, Sherlock,” Jim says, leaning forward until the chain stops him. “Who else could it be?”

The lights dim; distantly, Sherlock hears the sound of crumbling walls.

“This is how it always ends, Sherlock.” Jim sinks to the floor beside him and whispers into Sherlock’s ear. “You and me. Surrounded by destruction.”

Sherlock shakes his head and pants for breath. Dirt rubs roughly against his cheek.

“Did you think it would be John, sitting here with you?” Jim taunts, drawing out John’s name obscenely, then blows out a frustrated breath. “Booring! John can’t save you. Not this time. John’s too busy off being married, or working, or whatever it is ordinary people do when they move on.” 

The touch of Jim’s tongue to the back of his neck makes Sherlock flinch and drag himself out of Jim’s reach. Jim laughs. 

“Really, you’re better off with me. You’re going to love being dead, Sherlock. No-one  _ ever _ bothers you.”

* * *

 

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft looks up at the sound of Adams’ voice, follows his gaze to where Varga has entered the hall. She bypasses him completely and approaches a nurse; they hold a murmured conversation, and then Varga goes back to operating theatre. The nurse follows moments later, wheeling a cart.

“What is it?” Adams asks quietly.

Mycroft swallows. “Adrenalin, among other things.”

“Why--”

“They use it when they defibrillate a patient. Varga or the surgeon suspects Sherlock’s heart will stop, if it hasn’t already.”

* * *

 

The lights flicker constantly, buzzing loudly. Water runs down the walls. Air roughly drags over the back of Sherlock’s throat as he breathes. He’s sweating; the pain is immense, ripping through him with no hope for relief.

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, Sherlock is boring,” Jim sings. The sound of jangling chains fills the room as Jim resettles, then continues his song. “I’m laughing, I’m crying, Sherlock is dying.”

“You never felt pain, did you?” Sherlock gasps, closing his eyes. “Why did you never feel  _ pain _ ?”

“You always feel it, Sherlock,” Jim reprimands. “Always. But you don’t have fear it!”

* * *

 

Varga opens the door and turns to them. The line of her mouth is carefully neutral, but her eyes are filled with empathy.

“If you have something you want to say…” she starts.

Mycroft nods and pulls himself up from the chair. His knees ache.

* * *

 

The lights go out for a few seconds and agony rips through Sherlock’s chest. Tears slowly track down his cheeks.

“Pain. Heartbreak.  _ Loss. _ ”

Sherlock turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling of the padded room, fingers gripping at his skin, trying to pull the pain out.

“Death,” Jim whispers. “It’s  _ all  _ good.”

Sherlock shakes his head, biting his lip to hold back a moan.

Jim cranes his neck to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “It’s  _ all  _ good,” he repeats with a grin.

* * *

 

Sherlock is pale and dirty in the bright light of the operating theatre. His eyes are closed, and the tubes coming out of him add an air of vulnerability to him that Mycroft rarely sees anymore. The EKG monitor is beeping slowly, but consistently.

“Sherlock,” he begins, then has to clear his throat and stiffen his resolve. “Sherlock. Listen to me, now, for once in your-- your  _ bloody _ life. You need to feel. Feel the pain, then  _ fight _ . Do not make me have to tell our parents you died a nameless, broken man in Serbia.” Mycroft swallows. “More importantly, do not allow John Watson to continue believe you died outside St Bart’s hospital a shamed man resorting to suicide.”

The monitor slows, then drones on as no new pulse registers. The OT becomes a flurry of activity. The whine of a charging defibrillator fills the air, then someone shouts clear.

* * *

 

_ Sherlock. _

Sherlock opens his eyes at the sound of his name. 

“Sherlock!”

It’s coming from outside the barred door. There’s a bang, and the wood shudders. Jim lifts his head. 

“Sherlock, please.”

That voice. Sherlock rolls onto his stomach. Pulls himself to his knees, stands. The room tilts and he slams into the wall, but doesn’t fall.

“No!” Jim shouts, rising, spit flying from his mouth. “You can’t have him!”

Sherlock clings to the padding that covers the wall and drags his body to the door. He presses his forehead against the rough wood. “John?” he whispers.

“Sherlock. You need to fight.”

“Help me,” Sherlock begs. His knees threaten to give out on him.

“I can’t,” John says. “But you can make it. All you need to do is open the door.”

There’s a heavy metal beam that holds the door closed. Sherlock scrambles to lift it, but it refuses to move.

Jim cackles from behind him. “You’re too weak, Sherlock!” he taunts. “Too weak, and too ordinary. You’re going to die here, stuck with me.”

“Open the door, Sherlock.” John’s voice is firm. Sherlock’s hands readjust their grip around the beam and pull. His arms shake from the weight, but he lifts the beam enough to slip it from its resting place. He slips his fingers underneath, ignores the protests of his crushed bones, and pushes up. The metal falls to the floor with a clatter; Sherlock collapses against the door as a wave of pain crashing through his body leaves him breathless and trembling.

“Now pull the door open,” John instructs.

“It hurts,” Sherlock heaves, doubling over.

“Sherlock. Do it now.”

He clutches the handle to the door, allows his body weight to pull the door open. Jim lunges for him, but gets caught by the end of the chain, snarling. The lights flicker back on. Sherlock staggers out of the room, falling; steady hands catch him before he hits the floor.

“You’ll never make it!” Jim screams. “You can’t escape it, Sherlock. I’m always here!”

“I’ve got you,” John promises as the lights come up. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

 

The doctors restart Sherlock’s heart two times. Each time, it stops again within moments.

“Do it again,” Mycroft commands, focussed on Sherlock.

“Mister Holmes--” Varga begins.

“Do it again!” Mycroft repeats, louder. There’s a moment of silence, then Varga nods to the one holding the defibrillator.

“One more time,” she says lowly.

The defibrillator charges, and the pads are pressed to Sherlock’s chest once again. A man says clear, and it discharges the electricity; Sherlock’s chest jerks, and the EKG resumes its beeping.

“Adrenalin,” Varga instructs. 

Sherlock’s eyelids flicker. The adrenalin is administered through an IV, and the room waits with baited breath. One minute, two. Sherlock’s heart continues to beat.

“Oh, god,” Mycroft breathes in relief. His knees give out. Someone catches him by the shoulders before he falls.

“His pulse is back to stable,” Varga announces, turning to the surgeon. “Close up your incisions and get him out from under the knife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! All the snips of dialogue that came from HLV were found in arianedevere's amazing transcript on lj. Comments always welcome and appreciated :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I've let this sit for so long! I was busy with a production, then Holmestice...apologies also for the shortness of this chapter, but I wanted to put _something_ up. 
> 
> Thank you for your continuing comments and kudos-- even if I haven't replied yet, I'm extremely appreciative <3

The click of the door opening makes Mycroft flinch awake, hand going to the gun sitting in his lap.

“Easy,” Adams says. “Just me.” He holds out a coffee cup and Mycroft takes it. Adams sits in the chair next to him, grimacing.

“Blasted chairs are always uncomfortable,” he complains halfheartedly as Mycroft takes a sip of the coffee. It tastes semi-burnt and doesn’t have nearly enough sugar, but it’s hot and gives him something to do with his hands.

“Have you talked to Doctor Varga about his prognosis?” Adams asks.

Mycroft nods, looking over to where Sherlock is in bed, surrounded by white sheets and machines. 

“It appears we will be in Budapest longer than expected,” he says wearily. “Besides the obvious need for him to heal from the stab wounds and other injuries, she’s concerned about his heart and the possibility of pneumonia.”

“How is he now?”

“Hard to say. He’s doing better, but she emphasized that he could slip backwards without much warning.” Mycroft takes another sip of coffee.

“Holmes, I am--”

“Do not say you are sorry, Adams,” Mycroft interrupts. 

“I planned to say I was at your disposal,” Adams replies dryly. “If that is acceptable.”

Mycroft looks down at his coffee cup. “I...Thank you,” he says at last. “There is something. Gray needs to be paid, but I find myself loathe to leave as of this moment.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mycroft shifts in his seat enough to pull out his wallet. “Here,” he says, pulling out a slip of paper and a few bills. “The account information, and some money. Use an internet cafe to access the account, if you would.”

“And the money?”

“Clothes. As simple and generic as you can find.”

Adams pockets the money and paper and stands. “Back soon, sir,” he says with a nod, and slips out the door.

Mycroft adjusts his coffee in one hand and lays the other over his gun, then settles back into the chair to wait.

* * *

 

Something is crawling up his nose, cutting off his air, no  _ no stop it-- _ Cool air rushes into his lungs. His body accepts it, expels it, rinse and repeat. There is a rhythmic beeping that accompanies the pulse he can feel throughout his body. A sharp prick of pain, then everything starts to dim, consciousness and pain disappearing in a haze...

* * *

 

He is pulled back to the waking world slowly, like a gentle tide creeping up the shore. When his eyes open, he is greeted by muted white light filtering down from a ceiling. The beeping continues. Hospital? How? 

He rolls his head to the side and sees a man sitting in a chair next to him, a gun in one hand.  _ Gun _ . He takes in a sharp breath and tries to move his hands, get up, run, do  _ something. _ He fails and is left helpless, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

“Sherlock,” the man says, standing. “You’re awake.” He leaves the gun on the chair, and he -  _ Sherlock _ , his mind reminds him - relaxes.

“It’s Mycroft,” the man continues, and at the sound of his name a flood of memories comes pouring into Sherlock’s mind.  _ Caring is not an advantage. Oh, Sherlock. I am real. _ “You are in Budapest, you are safe.”

Sherlock licks his lips and forces the word past his dry throat. “Safe?”

A shadow passes over Mycroft’s face. “Yes,” he says firmly, brushing the back of his hand over Sherlock’s forehead. “I need to find Doctor Varga and have her look you over, but you have my word: I will get you back to London safely.”

Mycroft slips out of the room and Sherlock only fights the exhaustion for a moment before letting his eyes slip closed again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God bless summer break and swing shifts at work for letting me knock out this chapter in two days! Sorry it's been so long- the last few weeks of school were quite crazy (in a good way, but also in a no-time-for-writing-way).

John suppresses the urge to pat the small box in his pocket and nods to the waiter as they sit down and are given menus. The Landmark is busy, but not too loud; or maybe, he’s just tuned out all the other noise in favour of listening to Mary’s voice as she tells an amusing story from the office. Her dress clings in all the right places, and her smile is bright in the intimate lighting. John’s hands are slightly clammy.

Mary excuses herself to the bathroom. John watches her disappear up a set of stairs, then ducks his head and checks (for the twentieth time) that the box with the ring is still in the pocket of his jacket. Nerves settled for now, he picks up the wine list.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?”

John stares at the list and tries to translate some of the French, to little avail. “Yeah,” he says to the waiter. “I’m looking for a bottle of champagne-- a good one.”

“Of course, sir,” the waiter replies. “May I suggest the last on the list? An excellent vintage, it is.”

“Yes, thank you,” John says, and hands the man the wine list.

“I will have it in a few moments,” the waiter says and walks away. Alone again, John pulls the box from his pocket and runs his thumb over the velvet before setting it down on the table. His heart is pounding, and his mouth is dry. He reaches blindly for the glass of red he’d ordered, and downs what’s left in two large swallows. He catches sight of Mary coming back down the stairs, and finds his breath taken away. Is he really going to do this? There’s still time to take it back, put the box back into his jacket and chalk up the expensive dinner to a fanciful whim.

Mary’s nearly at the table. John snatches back the box before she sits down.

“Sorry that tooks so long,” she says with a smile.

John waves it off with the hand not clutching the box in his lap. “It’s fine,” he assures.

Mary tilts her head and looks at him. “You okay?”

John clears his throat and smiles. “Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am _fine_.”

“Now then,” Mary says sweetly. “What did you want to ask me?”

John feels his smile fade. “More wine?” he asks, gesturing to the empty glass.

“No, I’m good with water, thanks.”

“Right.” John casts a look over the restaurant, searching for the waiter and the champagne.

“So…” Mary prompts him.

“Yes,” John says. “So. Mary. Listen...um, I know it hasn’t been long... I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time…” He looks down at the white tablecloth and swallows.

“Go on,” Mary encourages.

“Yes, I will,” he replies, and looks up. “As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you…” he nods. “Meeting has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”

“I agree.”

“What?” John says, blinking.

Mary smiles. “I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.”

A laugh slips from John’s throat and Mary screws up her nose.

“Sorry,” she says.

“Well no, um--” There, weaving his way through the people, holding a bottle and two glasses. Thirty seconds, maybe, before the waiter makes it to them. The question is on the tip of John’s tongue; he could ask it and have his answer just as the waiter approached the table.

He looks at Mary, smiling expectantly. “So. If you’ll have me, Mary,” he begins. “could you see your way to…”

Mary raises her eyebrows. “To?”  
He puts the box on the table. “Marrying me?” he finishes.

The champagne arrives as Mary kisses him, murmuring _yes_ against his lips. John forces a smile and pushes away the voice calling him an idiot for ever asking.

* * *

 

The sun rises in Budapest. Yellow-orange light filters through the blinds of the hospital room window, brightening the white walls. Sherlock has made it through the night; his pallor is still noticeable, but Varga says that his breathing has improved some and the most concerning wounds have avoided infection.

“His heart is still slightly weak,” she says, stethoscope pressed to Sherlock’s chest, “but the beat is consistent. When the nurse changed his dressings, she noted no infection to the stab wounds or the injuries to his back, so the antibiotics are working. These are good signs, as is the sleeping. Rest will lead to healing.”

Mycroft nods. His eyes are scratchy with exhaustion and his knees ache; age is catching up with him, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.

“What about the morphine?” he asks. “How soon can we start taking him off it?”

Varga hesitates, then shakes her head. “It would not be wise-- the pain could compromise his progress. If he continues at this rate of improvement, I would say a week more.”

It’s tempting fate. Of course it is-- narcotic painkillers for an ex addict? But Mycroft can remember the exact timbre and pain behind Sherlock’s groans on the way to Budapest, the agony of bandaging his brother’s wounds in the backseat of a car.

“I must make my rounds,” Varga says. “Excuse me.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmurs. Varga leaves, and Adams walks in a few minutes later, another cup of coffee in his hand. He had returned with clean clothes and confirmation of Grey’s payment earlier that morning, but had made himself scarce when Varga came to check on Sherlock.

“Sir,” he says with a nod. “All due respect, but you look like death warmed over.”

Mycroft smiles humourlessly. “I don’t think that’s going to help any,” he says, gesturing to the coffee.

“This is for me, sir,” Adams replies. “I’ll keep watch for a bit. Get some rest.”

Something in Mycroft’s expression must show his uncertainty, because Adams continues.

“Don’t leave the chair, if you want, and keep the gun, but you need to rest.” Adams looks over at Sherlock’s prone form. “He needs you at your best.”

Mycroft sighs. “Very well,” he agrees, settling into the hard chair as best he can. The second his eyes close, he starts to drift off.

“Wake me if he does?” he murmurs.

“Of course,” Adams promises, and Mycroft lets himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome and appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! I'm trying to remember the last time I didn't start of a chapter with apologizing for how long it's been and...it's been too long. I'm trying to work on this more frequently, so hopefully there will be chapters up more consistently (though they may be shorter). It's a bit difficult because I'm not entirely sure where I want to go with this yet, in terms of a climax/ending.

“Piss _off_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock roars, slamming his left hand ineffectively against the bed. Pain flares up from his splinted fingers, and Sherlock struggles to keep it off his face. Mycroft stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“I thought you wanted--” he begins.

“If you’re not going to be useful, at least you can go somewhere else so I don’t have to look at your _pompous_ face,” Sherlock growls. His chest is heaving and Molly’s whispering in his ear, _you’re getting too upset, Sherlock, it’s not good for the injuries_ but dammit his mind is perfectly sound and he deserves to know what Mycroft’s figured out about the syndicate. He has the right to know.

Mycroft manages to look like he’s dressed in a stuffy three-piece suit rather than jeans and a jumper as he pulls himself to his full height. “Throwing tantrums isn’t going to help anything,” he reprimands. “But if you would like me to leave, I will.” Moments later the door closes behind him and Sherlock aches with the urge to throw something.

 _Getting violent, now?_ Jim taunts. _My, my._

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbles, turning down the dial on the morphine pump. The bloody stuff is clouding his brain, making him forget what happened. He has to remember, go over every detail and pull every piece of data from the rubble.

“Don’t you think you deserve a bit of a rest?”

“Rest is for victims, Lestrade,” Sherlock replies, closing his eyes.

“Name’s Adams, actually.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. There’s a man sitting in Mycroft’s former chair, holding a cup of coffee.

“A babysitter?” Sherlock sneers.

Adams shrugs. “Do you need one?”

“Of course not.”

“It must hurt, going without morphine like that.”

“Pain clears the mind.”

“Are you in the habit of lying to yourself?”

Sherlock levels a sharp glance at towards Adams, who looks back with a raised eyebrow. Sighing in irritation, Sherlock shifts.

“If you want to make yourself useful, find me a cigarette.”

Adams snorts a laugh. “Not likely.”

“Coffee, then.”

“Decaf tea.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “Horrid stuff.”

Adams take a sip of his own coffee, affecting nonchalance. “Decaf tea, and answers to your questions-- at my discretion, of course. Final offer.”

Sherlock stares at him, jaw clenched, but capitulates. “Nothing fruity, for the tea,” he commands as Adams stands.

“Fine,” the man agrees. “Back in a mo.”

The tea is dreadful, but it’s warm and gives Sherlock something to do  with his one good hand as Adams tells him what he wants to know.

“So,” John says from his position by the window after Adams finishes. “We’ve got a mysterious tip off from an interested party who may or may not know about you, but definitely knew about Mycroft’s mission. Connections to Moriarty are possible, but not a certainty.”

“You’ve forgotten that the organisation is mainly still intact, though leaderless. Also, the snipers are still at large, but otherwise, spot on,” Sherlock replies, absently taking a sip of the tea. It’s nearly gone cold.

“Snipers?”

Sherlock waves a hand through the air. “Unimportant right now; nothing to be done about those until we return to London.”

“That may be a while.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Three days at most.”

“Doctor Varga wants you to stay a full week.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Sherlock says firmly, setting down the styrofoam cup on the bedside table.

“Holmes, you were tortured! Or do I need to tell you how bad off you were when your brother found you?”

 _Holmes?_ John never called him Holmes. Sherlock blinks, hard, and the figure by the window shifts into Adams, looking at him with concern.

“That...that’s of no consequence,” Sherlock says with false bravado, blinking rapidly. _John was right there,_ he thinks frantically. His hands are shaking, and he hides it by pressing them against the bedsheets.

Adams shakes his head. “I’m going to find another cup of coffee. More tea for you?”

“No, I’m...I’m fine,” Sherlock says slowly. Adams shrugs, his shoulders stiff with irritation, and leaves.

Of course John couldn’t have been there, standing by the window. John was in London, doing...something.

Sherlock closes his eyes and settles into the bed. Loathe as he is to admit it, perhaps some sleep would do him good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome and appreciated! Also, quick but sincerely thanks for reading, whether you've stuck around since the beginning or are reading for the first time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short and I'm sorry for that. I've been dealing with some personal stuff lately and I haven't felt very motivated to write. JWP is the only thing that's really pushing me to sit down and bang out a ficlet each day, but it's also left me drained and less enthusiastic about this.
> 
> Never fear, though! I've sat down and done some serious brainstorming and I think the end of my writer's block is on the horizon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this small little chapter despite its size.

“Mister Holmes, I understand you are eager to return to your home, but your injuries are very severe. Many of them were inflicted only a few short days ago-- you must see why I cannot recommend your release yet.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw and tries not to yell at Doctor Varga; anger will only make things worse, no matter how much he wants to tell her that she can’t possibly understand him. It has been four days since his initial conversation with Adams, and the hallucinations of John have not abated. He needs to be back in London, now.

“I appreciate your professional input, Doctor Varga,” Sherlock says stiffly. “Could you send in my brother on your way out?”

Mycroft settles himself into his usual chair and sighs. “You want to return to London.”

“What tipped you off, brother mine?” Sherlock snipes, temper fraying at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. “The confidential conversation you just eavesdropped on?”

“Adams, actually,” Mycroft replies calmly. “He mentioned it after your conversation the other day. I’m surprised you waited this long, really.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock fires back. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten in your haste to ‘save the day’, but Moriarty’s web isn’t completely dismantled yet, which means John and the others are still in danger.”

“Without me saving the day, Sherlock, you would be dead in some godforsaken warehouse!” Mycroft snaps, leaning forward in his chair. “And if that happened, where would we be, hmm? Certainly not in a position to be having petty arguments when we both want the same thing!”

Sherlock blinks, surprised, as Mycroft realises his outburst and settles back in his seat. The room falls silent for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says at length.

Sherlock shifts his gaze to the IV coming out of his arm, uncomfortable with Mycroft being less than insufferable. “I want to go home,” he whispers. It’s meant to sound righteous, angry, but his bloody transport takes ahold of the reins as he says it and it comes out choked, his eyes watering over.  _ Enough of this, _ he tells himself sharply, and blinks hard.  _ You’re alive, you can still solve the puzzle, so what is the point of this? _ His body does not listen, and the white sheets covering him turn grey with teardrops.

“I will make contact with Anthea and arrange transport,” Mycroft murmurs as he stands, and leaves the room with a quiet  _ snick _ of the door closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome and appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only way to get over writer's block is to write through it, I suppose! Thanks for being patient with me.

Mycroft stands outside Sherlock’s room and dials one of the many emergency numbers he and Anthea set up. The line rings for what feels like ages, until someone finally picks up.

“Hello?” Anthea’s voice is unmistakable.

“Good morning, ma’am. Can I interest you in entering a Primark sweepstakes?”

A sigh of relief comes over the line. “Mister Holmes. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Mycroft assures her. “Things became more...eventful than we originally expected.”

“And the package?”

“Rather battered, but retrieved. Which brings me to my reason for calling. I need a small plane for transport back to London. Tomorrow. Something that won’t raise flags.”

“Yes, sir. Where?”

“Budapest,” Mycroft says. “With the safest pilot we have.”

“Certainly.”

“Anthea, I want you to come as well.”

Anthea’s surprise is palatable. “Sir?”

“The situation has become more dire since we last talked. I need more back up, and I need you informed before we land on English soil,” Mycroft explains.

“I see,” Anthea says. “I’ll be on the plane, then, sir.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft says. “I will see you tomorrow. Please call this number when you know your flight time.”

“Sir,” Anthea agrees, and ends the call.

Mycroft pockets the mobile and sets out to find Doctor Varga. One of the nurses points him to her office, down the hall and to the right. He knocks on the door, then steps inside.

Varga looks up from her paperwork and motions him forward. “Mister Holmes. Please, have a seat.”

It is not easy to convince Varga to help them move Sherlock. Her arguments are valid; Sherlock is still injured and very weak. The trip could lead to a setback in his recovery.

“Surely you see that he is in no condition to travel?” she asks.

Mycroft sighs. “Of course,” he agrees. “But we have remained in Budapest longer than is safe, and I would rather fly back to London certain of where Sherlock is then find his bedsheets hanging out the window.”

Varga looks at him for a long moment. “I will accompany you to your plane and administer a sedative for the flight.”

“Of course,” Mycroft agrees.

Varga shakes her head. “Well then. When are you set to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

 

The incessant ring of a mobile phone wakes him.

“Hello,” Mycroft answers, sitting up on the couch in the waiting room.

“Mister Holmes.”

“Anthea.”

“We will be arriving at ten o’clock in the morning, Budapest time. Budapest Airport. I’ll be meeting you at the front desk to ensure a low profile through security.”

Mycroft squints at the clock across the room. Half four, which gives them five and a half hours. “Thank you for calling. See you at ten.”

He hangs up with a sigh and stands, wincing at the pain in his back. Slowly, limbs heavy with interrupted sleep, he walks down the hall to Sherlock’s room and eases open the door.

“Sir,” Adams whispers.

“Go get some sleep,” Mycroft murmurs. “We’re flying back to London later this morning, I need you in top condition.”

Adams doesn’t argue, and soon enough Mycroft is alone with a dozing Sherlock. Mycroft lowers himself into the chair and unholsters his gun from his ankle, setting it in his lap. Sherlock’s heart rate monitor beeps steadily and his breaths are audible in the quiet room. The sounds are relief; proof that Sherlock is still alive.

Mycroft exhales heavily and wonders when sentiment snuck its way into his heart.

* * *

 

The trip to the airport goes smoothly. Sherlock protests the wheelchair, but a stern look from Varga curbs his derision and Adams helps lift him into the backseat of the van. Mycroft takes the front passenger seat, Adams drives. Varga sits in the back.

Anthea is waiting for them at the front desk and they bypass security with the ease that comes from official paperwork and a small lump of cash; Mycroft makes a mental note to give her a raise.

They are almost ready to board when the argument starts.

“No.”

“Mister Holmes--”

" _No._ ” Sherlock pushes himself out of the wheelchair and stands shakily. With his bandages and the oversized clothes he put on earlier, Sherlock looks immensely fragile against the hard asphalt of the airfield. “You are not drugging me.” Sherlock turns to Mycroft, gaze hard, challenging an argument.

Before Mycroft can retort, Adams has stepped over to Sherlock to support him. “Then at least take some help getting up the stairs,” Adams says jokingly. “Don’t think your nose would survive it if you faceplanted.”

As they walk past, Mycroft offers his hand to Varga. “He is stubborn. And he is alive because of you.”

She takes his hand and smiles, a wry twist of her lips. “He takes after you. You’re welcome,” she replies. “You may always come to me in times of trouble.”

“Likewise,” Mycroft says. Varga nods, and walks away.

Mycroft hurries up the steps into the plane and takes a seat. Anthea presses the button to retract the stairs and close the door, then clasps her hands in front of her.

“I’ll tell the pilot we’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome and appreciated!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is crazy. Hopefully once it settles, I won't utterly fail at regular posting.

The impact of the pipe is punctuated by laughter. He struggles against the chains around his wrists. Fingers tug his hair sharply and pull his head back.

“Tsk, tsk, Locky. Don’t you want to be good? After all, you know the consequences…” the fingers guide his head to the right, and his breath catches.

_ John. _ Tied up, gagged, nose bleeding and left eye swollen. Passed out.

“If you can’t take the pain,” the voice murmurs, “then he will.”

* * *

 

Sherlock flinches awake. The plane. He’s on a plane, the side of his face pressed up against the window. His body is a map of pain thanks to his refusal of anything but paracetamol before the flight. Mycroft and Anthea sit a few seats away, holding a quiet conversation. 

“Nightmare?”

Sherlock looks at Adams, seated across from him with a book. “No,” he answers stiffly. “I’m a light sleeper.” He looks out the window and sees nothing but grey. He wonders how long he was asleep for, how much longer he has to wait before they land.

“You were out for about twenty minutes. The pilot said we should be arriving in London within the hour.”

Sherlock shifts in his seat and holds back a wince at the flare of pain in his abdomen. He presses his good hand against the bandages and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. The ease with which Adams can read him is unsettling.

“Your brother and I have worked together a long time. The two of you are more similar than you may think.”

Sherlock snorts. 

“This mission...it was the most reckless I’ve ever seen him. He risked a lot to get you out.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at Adams. “And what exactly are you to Mycroft?” 

Adams casts a glance over his shoulder to look at Mycroft, bent over papers with Anthea, and shakes his head. “Just a colleague,” he finally says. “Sometimes I fancy we’re friends, but…” he shrugs. “Holmeses are unconventional. I’m someone he trusts, and that’s good enough for me.”

Adams goes back to his book and Sherlock looks out the window, watching the clouds pass by.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, apologies. Moving house is difficult. If you were wondering, this and the previous chapter are meant to mirror one another.

His lungs burn, his knees protest with every step as he runs. Sherlock is in front of him, coat flared. Their footsteps echo in the narrow alley; they are chasing someone, he thinks. 

He doesn’t see Sherlock stop. Within a few steps, they’re colliding, and Sherlock is falling, falling, falling, until he disappears into the dark.

“Sherlock!” he screams, and realises his throat is raw.

“You never save him,” a voice says. Moriarty leans against the brick wall, studying his nails. 

“You’re wrong.”

Moriarty looks at him, a small smirk on his lips. “Care to try again?” he asks, and snaps his fingers.

“John, hurry! The game is on!”

Sherlock stands at the end of the alley, looking back impatiently, and before John can think he’s off again, running, trying to catch up.

* * *

 

He starts awake with Sherlock’s name caught in the back of his throat. His eyes open, and he stares up at the bedroom ceiling. To his left, Mary is curled under the covers and sleeping peacefully. John sucks in a heavy breath and sits up, then quietly slips out of bed. Morning light has already begun to invade the bed and bathroom; as he strips off and turns on the shower, he is confronted with softer edges, a larger stomach, and weaker muscles. Discomfort pools at the bottom of his stomach and he averts his eyes when he steps under the spray.

He washes quickly and efficiently, watching the water run down the tile walls. After he’s clean, he doesn’t linger in the shower, and swiftly dries himself off. He dresses, chokes down a fried egg, brushes his teeth. It’s barely half eight; his shift at the practice doesn’t start until ten. He could easily climb back into bed and hold Mary, wake her with kisses and still have time for a quick romp between the sheets before he would need to leave.

Instead, he packs an extra shirt into a bag and wheels his bike out the front door. It can’t hurt to go in early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome and appreciated! Thanks for sticking with me :)


End file.
